Broken Bonds Boxed Set 1-3

by Trisha Wolfe

  Maybe Quinn is right; I am green, with a youthful idealism of the law to boot. I’ve been witness to the dark underbelly of the world. I’ve seen these creatures up close, smelled their breath, tasted their thrill, gazed into the blackness of their soulless eyes. I’ve been seared and branded by their cruelty. My body and mind violated by their evil.

  Quinn believes he’s sheltering me from this dark realm. By dismissing my theories and trying to get me thrown off his case, he’s offering me some kind of backhanded protection. But if he had a bit more training in my field, he might see that I’m way past that point—the moment to shelter me died in a dungeon. And in this dark world of ghouls and demons, I’m the monster to be feared.

  All his old-school chivalry aside, Quinn strikes a cord in me—a deep one. Despite his anal, by-the-book shit, I do respect him. That’s why I’m out here now, gathering intel on Connelly. I don’t feel the need to prove myself or my theories, or to justify myself—but I’ll be damned if this predator kills another woman right under my watch.

  I’m pulled out of my thoughts as the waitress returns with my champagne. “Don’t get a lot of requests for this,” she says as she sets the flute before me. “Had to order it in special just for you.”

  “Thanks.” I take a sip, my lips puckering at the tartness of the cheap champagne. “What’s his drink?” I nod toward Connelly.

  “Him? Mr. Lonely Hearts. SoCo on the rocks.”

  “I’ll have one also,” I say, receiving a raised eyebrow from the waitress.

  “It’s your liver, darlin’.”

  As she sets off, I push back in the chair and uncross my legs slowly, piquing the interest of several men around the nearest pool table. Connelly remains unaffected. His head bowed over his tumbler, as if he’s studying the grains in the wood table.

  When the waitress places the tumbler of SoCo in front of me, I note his slight shift in posture. His shoulders twitch upward, his neck straightens, jaw tense. I want to make sure I have his attention, let him know he has mine, but I hope my move isn’t too bold.

  Connelly likes to be the pursuer. He makes the move, not the other way around. He’s the dominant man over the more dominant woman. I might’ve just angered him. Though, that anger could work to my advantage, too.

  For the first time, his eyes meet mine. Dark pools of liquid black, they stare into me, a challenge. Keeping my facade in place, my guard up, I lick my lips deliberately. Watch his gaze fall lower to take in my subtle taunt. A hungry glint flashes in his eyes as he rests his hand, just a finger, over his mouth to hide a smile.

  Coy. Charming. Oh, how the girls must eat up his act.

  But this is good. I’ve pushed him just the right amount, letting him know I’m approachable, but I’ve left the ball in his court. He’s still the one in charge, the shot caller. He’s employing his tactics on me, which means I’m in his crosshairs.

  He won’t make a move on me in here, in front of others. The chance to be publically rejected is still too intimidating. He knows better from past experiences, and has learned to corner his prey, isolate them. He hates being humiliated. Even, or especially, by a filthy whore.

  As his gaze continues to rake over me, now that I’ve invited his assessment, I can feel the chilly fingers of apprehension clutching at my boundaries. I should be more than wary. I should be afraid. If Quinn knew where I was right now, if he was aware of the dangerous game I’m playing, he would be furious. And disappointed. Maybe even a little insulted. Despite his stern act with me, he does hold me in high regard as a young woman of the law, and the fact that I’m debasing myself to get on the same level as a deviant offender says more than he’ll ever know about the person I really am.

  Some truths are better kept in the dark.

  But I’ve tumbled in the filth with Connelly’s likeness before. I discovered a long time ago just how deviant my nature can be. I no longer know where my boundaries are—where my hard limits lie. All I know for sure is that I will do what it takes to stop him from torturing one more girl.

  Toying with a lock of my hair, I give him a smile of my own, encouraging him to finally make his move. He shifts in his seat, but doesn’t stand. I follow his cues, waiting for him to stand so I can follow him out. Right when I think he’s about to rise, his face hardens and my view is blocked. Someone steps in my line of vision.

  “Seen you here a few times now.”

  I glance up into the face of a tall man with sun-weathered creases surrounding his glassy eyes. Timidly smiling, I say, “I’ve seen you, too.”

  “Well, then,” he says, becoming bolder. He moves his pool stick aside and extends his hand. “We’re overdue for an introduction. Why don’t you join us for a game? We need another pretty face at the table.”

  I glance around him to see one of the girls bending over the pool table to make a shot. Then I look at the guy’s outstretched hand. “Sorry, honey. I don’t play.”

  This needs to move along quickly. Connelly will be offended if I shrug off his subtle advance for another man. I could lose what little connection I’ve made with him.

  The guy, who’s wearing a plaid shirt and baseball hat, wraps his hand around my wrist and pulls me up to stand. “I don’t mind teaching you a few things one bit, sweetheart.”

  Shit. Trying not to make a scene, I wrench my wrist free and smile. “Maybe I’ll just watch. Root for you to win.” I peek at Connelly. He’s downing his SoCo, attention intentionally averted.

  “That sounds real nice,” the guy says. “Stick close to me, baby. I need a good luck charm.” He winks as he settles his large hand at the small of my back.

  My whole body locks up. Tension gathers in my shoulders, snaps my spinal cord straight. My skin flames where he his hot palm rests. As he guides me toward the pool table, I instinctually pull away from him, unable to suppress the flaring panic.

  Pull it together, Sadie. The plaid-shirted trucker doesn’t notice my aversion to being touched, but to my dread, Connelly does. There, in the pits of his black eyes, a twinkle of suspicion. A hint of doubt.

  He’s too fucking perceptive. A true hunter. This trucker might know a little about stalking, but he’s light-years apart from the forensic tech who dissects and analyzes his prey down to their most basic, visceral need.

  A prostitute who cringes at touch is either an intriguing specimen for him…or a red flag. As I settle in beside the trucker, I keep Connelly in my peripheral. I can almost see his brain churning the prospect; how excited he is by the thought of a woman, who’s terrified of being touched, bound and tortured. Her fear that much more palpable. The inflicted pain felt that much more deeper.

  Pure lust washes over his face, and he’s having a difficult time controlling the tremor in his hand as he tips the tumbler to his mouth.

  Caught.

  After a week of fruitless foreplay, in one unguarded moment, I’ve become his ultimate target. By revealing my greatest vulnerability, I’ve ensnared a predator that rivals even my abductor.

  This will end tonight.

  “Scoot closer, baby.” The trucker squeezes my waist, forcing my body close to his. “This game is about to get interesting.”

  My heart rate jacks, but I don’t move. Frozen in place, I allow Connelly to assess me openly. My triggers and my reactions. My weaknesses. I’m giving him a wealth of knowledge to use against me, but it’s a fair trade.

  I’m learning even more about him.

  Our desires can be our ultimate weakness, too.

  The man at the other end of the pool table catches my attention. He’s sussing out his own target. He sways to the side on a drunken stagger as he raises his pool cue. As his partner leans over the table to line up her shot, he slides the stick between her legs.

  She misses the shot, the tip of the cue marking the green felt. “Shit!” she snaps, glancing back at the guy. “That’s fucking stupid. I’m on your team, ya know.”

  But he’s not worried one bit about the game. He continues to run the stick
up the inside of her thigh, then lifts the hem of her skirt, his gaze steady on his prize. When she attempts to straighten, he moves quickly. Bracing his hand against her back, he pushes her chest-down on the table.

  My stomach clenches. Out of reflex, I place my hand on my hip, seeking the comfort of my weapon…only to find my SIG not there.

  Her yelp startles the rest of the patrons of the bar, including Connelly. All eyes shift to watch the scene unfold as the drunk trucker yanks up her skirt. I wait, breath bated, for someone to stop this from happening.

  Only no one does.

  One by one, the patrons shake their heads, and either return to their drinking or stand to leave. As her warnings turn into shouts of protest, the bar clears out. Tightness squeezes my lungs, a vise-like terror infusing my chest.

  This has happened before—and it’s common.

  A normal enough occurrence that a head shake or distaste expressed through simply leaving and turning a blind eye is customary.

  And why would anyone care what happens to a whore? Why waste the energy to stand up for her? She’s looking for it. Asking for it. Sex is her profession.

  This is why the Roanoke serial killer has gone unapprehended for almost three years. No one cares enough to investigate the murder of a prostitute, or even to report her missing. Who knows how many victims there actually are?

  The country music pumping out of the old jukebox twangs on as the girl is stripped of her tank top. Ripped from her body, her faded pink bra is torn and hangs from one shoulder. Her breasts spring free to encourage the guy on.

  Next to me, the plaid-shirted trucker hoots. “Get in there, Rusty! She’s been begging for that dick.”

  A sickness coats my stomach as he pulls me in front of him, pinning me between the pool table and his erection. His sour beer breath caresses my cheek as he leans in close to my ear. “How about a freebie, honey. One for the road.”

  I have a badge in my car. I have a gun in my car. I have the power to stop this. One swift kick to his balls, and I can overpower him. At least for the seconds needed to gain the upper hand. Then run out of the bar. Get my badge and gun. Put in a call to have these rapists apprehended.

  The local precinct might not warrant a rape of a prostitute as a major sex crime, but attacking an agent? That would not be overlooked so easily.

  My body is braced to put these thoughts into action—my hands gripping the edge of the pool table, my muscles strung tight, limbs ready to be put into motion—until I meet his eyes.

  Black pools gauging me. Waiting to see my response.

  I loathe myself because, as the girl screams, trying to fight off her attacker, I’m torn. Save one prostitute from being raped, allowing a serial killer to go free. Or witness the injustice and gain a chance to bring Lyle Connelly down.

  In the moments it takes for me to weigh my options, the trucker behind me has my dress ruched up around my hips. He pushes his hand against my back, flattening my stomach against the scratchy green felt. Panic immobilizes my body, and it’s enough time for him to spread my legs and step between them, removing my power.

  As his fingers snake beneath my underwear, running the length of the seam across my ass to my core, a fierce quake erupts over my body. I watch the girl at the other end of the table submit. Tears leak from the corner of her eye, dripping into her destroyed hair, as her attacker pins her arms and thrusts into her.

  Anger seizes me, spiking my blood. I take one last glimpse at Connelly. His eyes widen as I give away my intentions. Mine tell him everything he needs to know. I will get you. This isn’t over. Then I reach for the pool cue in the center of the table, my fingers scraping and clawing the felt.

  Just as my fingers nudge it, a hand snags it out of my grasp.

  Connelly slits his eyes at me, a rye smile twists his lips—I’m made.

  Then the pool stick makes contact with my attacker. A loud crack, then I’m released. Freed as the trucker shouts, “Fuck!”

  I roll over and bring my feet in, then land both feet to his chest, kicking him backward as he holds his face. He stumbles into a table, and Connelly is there to finish him. He raises the broken pool cue over his head and proceeds to beat the trucker over the back of his head until he goes still.

  The swift commotion garners the attention of the whole bar, which is now quiet and transfixed. I glance back at the girl. The guy has left her and is now coming after Connelly.

  He lands a blow to Connelly’s kidney, dropping him to the floor. On his knees, Connelly sweeps the blood-coated pool stick and takes out the trucker’s legs. Once he’s back on his feet, he sends a rapid kick to the trucker’s stomach, then another to his head.

  Shaky with adrenaline, I rush over to my attacker and feel for a pulse. He’s alive. Knocked the hell out, but he’ll live.

  It hits me suddenly; Connelly is a hero. If this is called in, he might be locked up for a night. Assault and battery charges placed. But once it’s determined that he was defending a woman against rapists, the charges will be dropped to a misdemeanor. He might even walk with no charges. Connelly will be praised within his department for his heroics.

  And I’ll be sanctioned.

  One word of this reaches Quinn and he’ll know exactly what I’ve been up to. Working undercover with no authorization to do so. I didn’t get clearance; I set out on this UC operation alone. I’m not sure if he’ll be angrier that I ignored his order to stop investigating Connelly, or the fact that I put myself in danger.

  Probably both.

  A throaty whimper draws my attention. The waitress has the victimized girl wrapped in her thick arms, pulling her tattered shirt up over her shoulders. One look at them and I know this won’t be reported. The prostitute doesn’t want the law involved, and neither do the bar employees.

  Here, the law is considered more of an enemy than the rapists who just attacked us.

  I try to compose my facial features to resemble the downturned, resolute appearance of the two women. Though I know I’m not fooling Connelly, I have to keep my guise in place until I know for sure what happens next.

  Connelly doesn’t discard the pool cue. It’s evidence, and he’s a specialist that knows the evidence is damning. He takes it with him as he walks over to his table, removes his wallet, and drops a bill on the table. He doesn’t look at anyone as he leaves the bar.

  As the adrenaline ebbs, my rational mind comes back into play.

  I’m not sure if this is a good thing or not; if I’m relieved or repulsed. I’ve studied Connelly for a month. Have worked the profile to understand his character, and his actions tonight deter from every conceivable outcome.

  What’s worse than not being able to predict the next move of a killer? Knowing that you and the killer are the only two enlightened by the truth.

  I could rationalize that his dominant nature spurred him to act against his natural impulses. He claimed me as his, and refused to allow another man to tarnish his possession.

  If he hadn’t made me as an imposter, that very well could’ve been his motivation.

  But there’s something stronger at play here than his need: his survival instincts.

  For those who revel in the taking of lives, they value and protect their own with a fierceness that rivals the protective nature of a mother over her child.

  I let these thoughts fall into the background of my mind as I collect myself. Straightening my dress, I tug it down my thighs, smooth my disarrayed hair along my shoulders. The awkward silence filling the bar follows me as I move toward the table to grab my clutch and then head to the door. I won’t be back to this bar, but neither will Connelly.

  Before I leave the comforting light beaming from the lamppost, I remove my phone from my bag and poise my thumb over the lit screen, ready to hit my programed emergency button.

  The rental car parked in the lot backs my story of my car being broken down, but also gives me another layer of anonymity. As I punch in the keyless entry code under the door handle, an eerie feel
ing touches the back of my neck.

  I open the door and have one foot inside the car when I feel a rough band of rope circle my neck. Shock grips me and I gasp—but I was ready; I hold on to that single, nearly fleeting thought as I prepare to lose my ability to breathe. I’m primed for him to deflect my attempt to grab the rope, so I focus on my phone, my thumb already moving over the screen.

  “I’ve been studying you, too.” His words are a low rasp as he wraps his hand around my wrist. Before I can hit the button, he rams my arm against the car. My phone drops to the gravel.

  I squeeze my eyes closed, dragging in a breath past the constriction of my throat.

  He closes the door, then pulls my back against his chest as he drags me away from the car. The sudden loss of the interior light submerges us in the cover of darkness. The chirr of crickets seems to grow louder, hostile, as if the insects are provoked by the intruders invading their woods.

  My heel snags on a root. The shoe is lost to the soggy ground. I concentrate on keeping the other one in place; a possible weapon.

  Once we’re out of eyeshot, the tall grass and trees obscuring us from the bar, I’m forced to my knees. The muddy earth is cold and biting against my skin. He loosens the rope enough for me to take an unobstructed breath. I suck in the taste of dirt and humid summer as I fill my lungs.

  The press of a sharp object at my waist causes me to flinch out of reflex.

  “That’s not really your style,” I say, trying to buy time—to get him talking. To do anything but use that knife.

  The blade is removed, but the rope tightens around my neck. Blood rushes my ears in a whoosh as pressure bulges my eyes. My fingers dig at the coarse rope, trying to find access beneath the tightly bound cord. Then just as I fear losing consciousness, he loosens his grip.

  The rope slides against my neck as I gasp in air around a cough, the feel of choking still clinging to my throat.

  I watch his booted feet appear in my vision, the moonlight glinting off the polished, rubbed black. I keep my eyes on the ground as he stops before me.

  “There are witnesses,” I say.

  “None of which give a damn about either of us.”